Secret Indignities
by LM
Summary: Chapter Three is up! Blue Beetle is trying very hard to avoid someone. Not a supervillain, but . . . Bruce Wayne?
1. Chapter One

  
_Disclaimer:_

All characters are owned by DC Comics. Used for entertainment, not profit. 

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_**Secret Indignities**_

_Chapter One_

  
Later, Blue Beetle and Booster Gold would blame each other before ultimately concluding that the whole thing was Bruce Wayne's fault. Not that it started with Bruce Wayne, exactly. No, it started in the headquarters of the world's greatest superheroes . . . JUSTICE LEAGUE INTERNATIONAL! 

Specifically, it started in the kitchen. 

Blue Beetle sat at the weathered wooden table, leaning on his elbows as he sifted with automated motions through untidy piles of papers. Although he was in costume (all two-toned blue, with the dark blue lines over his ribs resembling the stylized, stretching legs of an insect), his cowl was pulled back, bulgy yellow goggles and all, to reveal a crumple of auburn hair. He heaved a somewhat overdramatic sigh as he dug a particularly dog-eared document out of the middle of a minor tower of papers, then groaned as the entire top half of the stack slowly, inexorably slid sideways and cascaded off the table. He muttered a half-hearted curse as he made a grab for them . . . then blinked in surprise when they stopped halfway from the floor, settling on an invisible surface two feet off the ground. 

"Hey Beetle," Booster Gold grinned from the doorway. "Drop something?" 

"Nice save." Blue Beetle reached down to scoop up the papers, but they floated away, just out of his reach. 

"What? I use one of my patented, copyrighted, all-rights-reserved force fields to help the bug-man and all I get is 'nice save'?" Booster neatly manipulated his force field to push the documents into a recognizable, if slightly haphazard, stack before carefully lowering them back onto the table. "Clearly a waste of my many, varied talents!" 

"Well, you know what they say . . . With great power comes great responsibility and all that," Beetle replied, straightening the papers a little. 

"Where'd you hear that?" 

"Read it somewhere." 

"How about 'With great power comes great profit'?" suggested Booster, whose tagline wasn't the Corporate Crusader for nothing. 

"Pffft. I wish." 

"Well, _that_ sounded a little bitter. What's up?" Booster entered the room, his yellow and blue costume reflecting in the glossy, checkered linoleum. He blinked as he saw that in addition to the papers sprawled across the table, Beetle also had two full boxes overflowing on the floor. "What the heck are you _doing? _ Fifteen years of taxes all at once?" 

"Not far off," Beetle said gloomily. "Bankruptcy forms." 

"You're kidding." Booster's eyes widened behind his yellow visor. "Last time I checked, K.O.R.D. Inc.'s stocks were through the roof! What happened??" 

"Do you want me to start with the part where my girlfriend--correction, my _ex-_girlfriend--called my father out of retirement in the South Pacific to replace me because I was 'neglecting the company'? Or how about when the board of trustees booted me out with a vote of no-confidence? Or maybe I should just skip to the part where my father managed to gut the multi-million dollar company, which _I_ pulled out of the gutter to begin with, in a month? _A month!"_ Beetle repeated incredulously. "How is that even _possible?"_

"He must've been giving helluva big Christmas bonuses . . . Seriously though, I'm sorry, man. I had no idea." 

"Yeah, well . . ." Beetle shrugged. "I guess I can see where the board was coming from . . . When you spend half the day as a costumed vigilante, it's hard to get to your desk on time, y'know?" 

"Unless being a costumed vigilante _is_ your desk job," Booster Gold said a trifle smugly. He looked thoughtful. "Hmm . . . 'vigilante' has such a negative connotation, though. I think I prefer 'unlicensed crimefighter.'" 

"My friend, the spin doctor." 

Booster cocked his head to one side, wearing the vague smile he always displayed when he came across an unfamiliar 20th century phrase and was trying to decide whether to ask for a definition. The futuristic superhero apparently decided it wasn't worth the effort in this case, as he merely said, "So how long have you been wading through that junk?" 

"Oh, I dunno . . . since ten or so . . ." 

"Ten?? Geez Beetle, it's _two_ now! I'll bet you didn't eat yet either, did you?" Booster said, giving his friend a disapproving look. 

"Booster. _Look_ at this mess." Blue Beetle waved a hand over the table, unintentionally sending a few 1099 forms flying. "I don't have time to eat. I don't have time to sleep. I'm lucky I still have time to _breathe."_

"I could help you go through them," Booster suggested as he picked up a few of the papers and began to flip through them. 

"Erm . . . Not that I don't appreciate the offer, but . . . maybe that's not such a good idea," Beetle said hesitantly. 

"Why not?" Booster asked in a slightly offended voice as he tried to make heads or tails of an inch thick IRS form. 

"Because you're holding that upside down, for starters. Admit it, Booster, as far as you're concerned, it might as well be Greek." 

"That's not true!" Booster said crossly as he turned the form right-side-up. It _wasn't_ true, either; Greek would've made more sense. "Look, I don't care how much stuff you have to sort through, you still need to take a break, Beetle. Get out, go for a walk, grab something to eat . . . Did you know there's a new Mexican place near the embassy?" 

"Oh yeah, I keep meaning to drop by and check that place out. What's it called again?" 

"La Cucina." 

"La _what?_ Shouldn't that be _co_cina? 'Cucina' is _Italian_ for kitchen . . ." 

"Uh huh. But that's what it's called. I think it's supposed to be trendy or ironic or something. I hear the food's great, though!" Booster said. 

"Well . . ." Blue Beetle hesitated. "If you want to go check it out . . . I guess the paperwork will keep for an hour or two . . ." 

"That's the spirit, buddy!" Booster encouraged with a grin. 

"Don't forget to change into civvies," Blue Beetle warned as he began transferring armloads of papers from the kitchen table to an out-of-the-way corner of the living room. "And try not to flash your name around. _Some_ of us still depend on secret identities, you know!" 

"Outdated," Booster called from the kitchen, but he trotted towards his room and reappeared a few minutes later in jeans and a T-shirt. 

"I suppose it would be too much to expect you to wear a shirt _without_ your picture on it?" asked Blue Beetle, who had also changed into less conspicuous clothes. 

Booster glanced down at his shirt, which featured a drawing of him flying with his feet neatly tucked together and his arms outstretched. "Hey, at least it's not a close-up head shot, right?" he said as he stuffed his superhero outfit into a briefcase. (The Justice Leaguers seldom left the embassy without their costumes, not since the night Mister Miracle, in his civilian garb, had been forced to take multiple breathalyzer tests after repeatedly trying to explain to an officer that his ignorance of the traffic laws was due to being raised by an evil god on a distant planet.) 

Beetle picked up a well-worn backpack containing his own costume. "You should think about getting some sort of disguise." 

"No way! I'm Booster Gold, 24/7," Booster grinned. "Besides, how would I disguise myself? Slap on a pair of fake glasses?" 

Both heroes laughed at the idea as they left, once again forgetting the Martian Manhunter's injunction against slamming the door. 

  



	2. Chapter Two

  
_Disclaimer:_

Most of the food descriptions in this chapter have been shamelessly lifted from the online menu of Chevy's Fresh Mex. So sue me . . . Wait, don't!

  


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_Chapter Two_

  
It took them a while to find the restaurant, as each of them had assumed that the other knew the address. They squabbled casually as they wandered in the New York swelter. Booster was sure that La Cucina was three blocks over and two up from the JLI embassy, and the fact that they didn't find it there didn't lessen his insistence at all. Blue Beetle--or Ted Kord, as his alter ego was known--was just as positive that he'd seen it in the opposite direction, just around the corner from the coffee shop Guy Gardner was always threatening to raze. ("One of these days I'll blow the sissy-shop away an' then maybe they'll replace it with a place that serves REAL drinks," Guy always said. To Guy, a "real drink" was one you could order in pints and quarts.) When they couldn't find it there either, they resorted to peering hopefully down random streets. 

They had more hope than luck, but they persisted anyway. Ted made a few unhappy noises about the paperwork he should have been working on, but without conviction; roasting on the New York City streets beat bankruptcy forms any day. Booster was simply too stubborn to admit defeat. Still, after their third visit to the place where he thought the restaurant should be, he reluctantly admitted that maybe going back to the embassy for a phone book wasn't a bad idea. 

They were just about to turn the corner to reach HQ when Booster stopped so suddenly that Ted ran into him. 

"Aw man . . ." 

Ted took a step back and turned to see what Booster was looking at. Across the street stood a building wearing a fresh but rather horrible shade of green paint, occasionally interrupted by pseudo-Pueblo designs stenciled in yellow and red. Someone had started adding "thatching" to the sloping overhang, but had left off about two-thirds of the way through. A neon sign proclaimed the building to be "La Cucina" in large, blinking letters. 

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me. I _told you_ we should've taken a left when we left the embassy!" 

"You didn't; you said to go straight for a block and THEN take a left," Booster corrected. "Anyway, at least we _found it_, right?" 

"Such as it is . . ." Ted gave the restaurant a doubtful look. It cheerfully blinked its name at him. 

"I know it doesn't look like much, but that's part of its _charm,_ Beetle. It's like people who make their furniture out of old tires and things. It destroys your preconceived notions of what it _should_ be so you enjoy it that much more, get it?" 

"Do _you_ get it?" 

"No," Booster said. "But I hear the food is great!" 

"Oh Lord . . . well, let's go check it out." 

They pushed through the glass-paned doors and walked towards the young man sorting receipts at the wooden desk directly in front of the doorway. He smiled at them as they stepped up. 

"Hello, what can I do for you gentlemen?" 

"Uh? Oh. Table for two, please." Booster's gaze flicked over the decor again. Random bits of paraphernalia hung on the wooden beams stretching overhead, from an old tandem bicycle to a pair of shoes to something that looked vaguely like a metal soccer ball that had been attacked by a swarm of corkscrews. "Interesting place you've got here." 

The young man pulled out two menus and gestured for the heroes to follow as he declared proudly, "There's nowhere else like it!" 

"God, I _hope_ not!" Ted whispered fervently. 

"I like it!" Booster said. "It's _different."_

"Different is definitely the word," Ted returned as they were ushered into a booth dominated by a large oil painting of dignified man with a grimace that suggested a bad case of constipation. The painfully ill-chosen color scheme set it aside from the average mediocre portrait piece. As if that weren't enough, someone had glued buttons all over the artwork . . . 

"Where do you find this stuff?" Ted asked the young employee, who had just assured them that their server would be with them in a minute. 

"Oh, you know . . . thrift stores, garage sales, that kinda place. And we try to spruce it up if it's too mundane. See that?" He pointed to the painting and said proudly, "The buttons were _my_ idea." 

"Mm-_hm._ Very, um, creative." Ted waited until the youth had left, then shook his head. "Kids these days . . . So what are you looking at, Booster?" 

Booster grinned as he peered over the edge of his menu. "Flan!" 

"You're on the _desserts_ already? Geez, don't waste any time, do you?" 

"Hey, life is short. Enjoy the good stuff while you can," Booster said, marking the dessert section with a finger while he flipped back to view the entrees. "Ohhhh, _shrimp_ fajitas . . ." 

"Mmmmm, double-cheese enchiladas . . ." 

"Check out the appetizers! Mozzarella cheese sticks? We don't have THOSE in the 25th century!" 

"No wonder you left . . . The stuffed jalapenos look good too." 

"Onion rings . . . mmmm . . . Oh, thanks," Booster added without looking up as their waiter put a basket of complimentary nachos on the table. "Coca-Cola," he said without waiting to be asked. 

"Pepsi," Ted Kord said. 

"And the debate rages on," said Booster as their server dutifully left to fetch their beverages. 

"Tastes great." 

"Less filling." 

"Hmmm . . ." They both leaned over their respective menus, engrossed. 

"Those mozzarella sticks sound REALLY good," Booster said after several minutes of zen-like contemplation. 

"So get them." Ted turned a heavily laminated page as he mentally wrestled with the pros and cons of fajitas versus enchiladas. 

"You really think I should?" 

"Sure. They're your arteries." 

"Hey, I'd share." 

"Even better. We can book the same ambulance and split the costs." 

"They charge for ambulance rides?" 

"A-yup." 

"Well, I'll bet _that_ makes sick people feel better . . . So what are you looking at?" 

"The baby back ribs . . . 'glazed on the grill with jalapeno jelly'," Ted quoted lovingly. "If only the damn things weren't so pricey . . ." 

"Aw, go on, treat yourself." 

"I don't know . . . I really shouldn't . . ." 

"C'mon, you deserve it after wading through all that legal crapola. Ooooo, tostadas! Think I should--?" 

"Sure," the sometimes Blue Beetle returned enthusiastically, catching the spirit. Really--why the hell not? 

By the time the waiter returned, Blue and Gold had managed to convince each other to select no less than four entrees each, plus two appetizers (onion rings and, of course, mozzarella sticks.) 

"You know, realistically . . . we'll never be able to eat all that," Ted said to Booster as the wide-eyed waiter retreated. 

"Speak for yourself," Booster returned comfortably. "For I am the mighty IRON STOMACH MAN! And my stomach is made of mightiest--" 

"Aluminum?" Beetle suggested. 

"IRON," Booster corrected. Then he grinned. "Besides, that's what doggy bags are for." 

"It would have to be a doggy the size of--oh _no."_ Ted's face suddenly turned beet red and he slouched down in the booth so far that he nearly slid right under the table. In fact, he looked as though he might make that his next move as his eyes darted from side to side, seeking an escape route that wasn't there. 

  



	3. Chapter Three

"Hey Bee--er, Ted, what is it?" Booster turned around to search for the cause of his friend's panic, frowning when all he saw was a man exuding suave sophistication from the soles of his sleek, well-polished shoes to his lustrous black sweep of hair. A beautiful blonde in a red dress hung off his expensive suit as though she were a strangely attractive fungus stuck to his shoulder, giggling emptily at the man's murmured small talk.

Booster pulled his head out of the aisle and looked back at Ted, who had sunk almost entirely out of view; only his head remained visible above the edge of the table.

"What's wrong?" Booster repeated. A thought struck him. "That's not your ex-girlfriend surgically attached to him, is it?"

"Booster, stop _staring_ at them," Ted hissed. "My ex never dressed like _that."_

"Too bad," Booster murmured appreciatively, turning in his seat again.

"Don't you recognize the _guy?"_ continued Ted, leaning out into the aisle a little ways as the waiter leading the well-dressed couple turned to take them to section with small, round tables surrounded by stiff-backed chairs.

"The guy?" Truthfully, Booster's attention had been focused . . . elsewhere. He had barely had time to notice the man before being distracted by that dress. The cut of the neckline was particularly . . . interesting . . .

"Booster, you're _drooling,"_ Ted said, skooching himself up in his seat now that he had determined that the man and woman wouldn't continue past their table.

"I'm not."

"You are."

"So who _is_ the guy? The villainous Fashion Plate? Captain Expensive? Lord Chick-Magnet?"

"He's a not a _villain._ You really don't recognize him? And you have the gall to call yourself the Corporate Crusader."

"Well . . . who?" Booster began to stand up so he could look over the booths and get another look at the individual in question, but Ted caught his sleeve and pulled him back down again.

"It's _Bruce Wayne,_ dummy."

"Ohhhhh, _Wayne._ Billionaire CEO of WayneTech, Wayne Corp., Wayne Enterprises, Wayne World--"

"Yes, yes, I KNOW, Booster. I was a billionaire CEO too until last month, remember?" He paused. "'Wayne World'?"

"Theme park. Biggest thing since Disneyland."

"I had to ask . . ."

"You know, I _thought_ he looked familiar. Why are you trying to avoid him, though? Wayne always seemed like a decent enough guy to me. Dumb as a brick, of course, but . . ."

"First of all . . . I probably owe him money. Second of all . . ." Ted reddened. "Well, I just don't want him to see me here in a . . . regular place like this. How the mighty have fallen, y'know?"

"But Beetle--Ted--you go to places like this all the time. You always have. Didn't you once tell me you hate fancy restaurants because they serve a third of the food at three times the price?"

"Yeah, but . . . that was when I _could_ have gone to fancy restaurants every night of the week if I _had_ felt like it."

"But you didn't," Booster pointed out.

"But I _could have."_

"But . . . but _he's_ here! Why should _you_ to be embarr--"

"Look, I just _am,_ okay? Lay off!" Ted snapped.

Booster raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. "Okay, okay, whatever. Nurse your little neuroses. See if I care."

"It's _not_ a neurosis, it's--" Ted cut himself off with a yelp as he spotted Bruce Wayne wandering down the aisle again, minus his date. This time he really _did_ fling himself under the table.

"Excuse me." The billionaire playboy gave Booster a vapid smile as he drew near. "Do you happen to know where the restrooms are?"

"Go straight, then turn left there at the end," said Booster, who had immediately located the men's room on arrival. (The 20th century was incredibly germ-ridden compared to his own era and he was diligent when it came to washing his hands.)

"Ah, thank you." Bruce Wayne's eyes seemed to slide towards the floor and Booster stifled a sigh, sure that Beetle's impromptu dive had been noticed. But instead of commenting on it, the billionaire focused on Booster again, leaning forward a little as if dredging up alcohol-hazed memories of various elite social functions. "Say, aren't you--?"

"No, I just look like him." Booster said in a polite but definite tone.

"Oh. So sorry, my mistake." Bruce Wayne nodded with a vague smile and moved on.

"Is he gone yet?" a voice floated out from under the table. Ted Kord cautiously surfaced, eyes darting.

"You know, now _I'm_ getting embarrassed," Booster Gold complained.

"Oh, come off it."

"I'm serious."

"You're never serious."

"But I am."

"Uh huh."

They crunched on nachos for a minute. "Wayne," Booster warned laconically when the billionaire exited the restrooms, causing Beetle to disappear under the table again. Mr. Wayne gave Booster a curious look as he returned to his own table. Booster smiled disarmingly as he went past and pretended not to hear the faint "whoof!" from under the table when he accidentally kicked something that felt like Ted's head.

"Ow," Ted said when he re-emerged, giving Booster a reproachful look.

"Sorry," the Corporate Crusader apologized. "You know," he added, "I think Wayne might have recognized me."

"I _told you_ you shouldn't have worn that shirt! Tell me, Booster . . . do you have _any_ clothes without logos or self-glorifying advertisements plastered all over them?"

"Ummm . . ."

"Never mind, stupid question, forget I asked."

"Okay, maybe the shirt wasn't the best idea," Booster admitted, glancing down at the picture of himself silk screened on the front of the article of clothing in question. "But he probably would have recognized me anyway. I mean, how many handsome, witty, urbane, blond guys with superheroic physiques _are_ there in New York?"

"None?"

"Oh, hardy-har-har."

"I notice 'modest' didn't make your list."

"There's no point in false humility."

"You've heard of the concept? Amazing . . ."

"I _am_, aren't I?"

In response Ted flicked a nacho at him. Booster dodged, then grabbed a handful of chips himself. By the time a truce was called several minutes later, the table was littered with tortilla chips and passing waiters both glared and crunched as they strode past.

"See, now this is a prime example of why I don't want Bruce Wayne to see me here," Ted said, head tilted as he picked a chip out of his hair.

_"You_ started it," Booster pointed out, unperturbed, as he swept the space in front of him clean, pushing the scattered remains of the nachos off the edge of the table. "I was serious about him maybe recognizing me, though. I've met him before at parties and things."

"Well, you'd better think of some story to tell him in case he decides to actually ask. Maybe if you say you're a clone--"

"Aw, Beetle, give me a break. That's _stupid._ I _hate_ this secret identity crap!"

"Ted! The name's Ted!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah . . ." the Corporate Crusader grumbled . . . then suddenly brightened as he straightened in his seat.

Ted turned and saw the waiter returning, pushing a small cart loaded liberally with white porcelain plates piled with steaming food. "Ahhhh, the entrees . . . "

"Here's your meal, gentlemen. The first wave of it, anyway." The waiter gave them a look of incredulity.

"We're really hungry. Haven't eaten in days," Ted deadpanned. He stole another glance at the cart. Man, they really _had_ ordered a lot of food, hadn't they?

"Um. Yeah, okay. Who ordered the Coca-Cola?"

"That would be Boo--I mean, that would be Michael," Ted indicated his friend. "Right?" he added, because Booster was giving him a dirty look for some reason.

"Yes, but--"

"And here are two empty plates in case you want to eat buffet style. Well, let me know if you need anything else. More refills . . . more nachos . . . antacids . . ." The waiter grinned and left.

"Right," Booster said, then aimed a glare at Ted. "Excuse me? What did you think _you_ were doing??"

"Keeping you from blowing our cover, that's what," Ted shot back as he picked up one of the empty plates and began loading it up with shrimp fajitas. "Which you were two seconds away from doing."

"So what if I was? It's MY identity!"

"Well, what about _me_ then? If you're prancing around as Booster Gold, it's not gonna take a rocket scientist to start thinking maybe _I'm_ a superhero too."

"I don't _prance!"_

"Frisk? Strut? Swagger?"

"You know, I should have left you buried in paperwork is what I should have done."

"Sashay?"

"I swear to God they are never going to find your body."

"I thought you were an atheist."

"Well, the sentiment is the same . . . Excuse me, but why are you piling ALL the double-cheese enchiladas onto your already considerable payload of food?"

"Waste not, want not . . ."

For a few minutes the only sounds to be heard were the clinks of silverware against the plates and the gentle sound of ice cubes shifting against each other in the tall glasses.

"Don't call me that again," Booster said abruptly, setting down his fork.

"Huh? What are you talking about? Don't call you what?"

"Michael. Don't call me Michael."

"But your name _is_ Michael," Ted said pragmatically, pointing his fork in Booster's general direction. "Your real name, I mean."

"My real name is _Booster,"_ his friend returned sharply. "It's _always_ been Booster."

" 'Always' being defined as 'since you picked up a high school nickname', right?"

The blond superhero glowered. "If you call me Michael, I'm going to call _you_ Edward. How do you like that . . . EDWARD?"

"Okay, okay, all right, geez! I won't call you Michael, Mike, Mick, Mickey, or anything BUT Booster Gold. And I'll always put the little copyright circle after your name. Sheesh! Overreact much?"

"I just don't like being called that," Booster said, a little sulkily.

"Well, it's your own fault for having such a different name. It's not exactly the first thing listed in the books of baby names."

"That's the _point._ It's unique. Like me."

Ted mumbled something under his breath.

"What was that?" Booster asked suspiciously.

"I said you are _definitely_ unique . . . Pass the salt, would you?"


End file.
